Lady, lady, never start Conversation toward your heart; Keep your pretty words serene; Never murmur what you mean. Show yourself, by word and look, Swift and shallow as a brook. Be as cool and quick to go As a drop of April snow; Be as delicate and gay As a cherry flower in May. Lady, lady, never speak Of the tears that burn your cheek- She will never win him, whose Words had shown she feared to lose. Be you wise and never sad, You will get your lovely lad. Never serious be, nor true, And your wish will come to you- And if that makes you happy, kid, You'll be the first it ever did.

[Requesting her epitaph to read this way:] Excuse my dust.

I wouldn't touch a superlative again with an umbrella.

Years are only garments, and you either wear them with style all your life, or else you go dowdy to the grave.

Yet, as only New Yorkers know, if you can get through the twilight, you'll live through the night.

They tire of quiet, that have known the storm

His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets.